Black Mark
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: Sheppard doesn’t believe in leaving men behind. Written for sga flashfic Abandonment challenge.


_"Black Mark" by Krissy Mae Anderson_

**Rating:** T/ Angry Green Wombat, mostly for language  
**Spoilers:** Rising, Home  
**Summary:** Sheppard doesn't believe in leaving men behind.  
**Challenge:** _sga flashfic_ Abandonment challenge.  
**A/N:** I know nothing whatsoever about the Army/AF aircraft, guns or whatnot, so there's probably a ton of mistakes in here, and I couldn't find a beta for this one, so there might be creative grammar, too. Please feel free to point out the mistakes!

* * *

I have shut down the radio five minutes ago, and now all I can do is sit in the cockpit, clutch my gun and try not to bleed all over the controls. I know I'm screwed, but there's the good kind of screwed, where one remains alive and gets a kick in the ass from the brass, and the bad kind, where one is very dead and possibly has their head chopped off. At the moment, I'm not sure just how screwed I'm going to be. Yes, I have a bullet stuck in my arm, but one has to think positively – it's not the gun arm, so it's fine. Colonel Chesterfield has ordered me to evac to base immediately, which is something any pilot who possessed common sense would do, but I've never had much common sense to begin with, so I've informed Chesterfield of my decision to stay and flipped the little switch to off without a second thought, cutting the Colonel off in mid-"fuck". 

We had been investigating reports of suspicious activity in this mountain range, and we walked right into a fucking ambush just as we were getting ready to leave. Just when I climbed into the cockpit and began to start up the chopper, a whole bunch of rebels erupted seemingly out of nowhere, and before I knew it there was a bullet in my shoulder, Moreno and Williams were dead, and Brenner, Lastow and Przeworski were cut off. Unless I took off right that moment, I would run the risk of getting the insurgents their very own twenty-five million dollar helicopter. Since the USAF policy on giving bad guys American technology is a big no-no and I couldn't really fight twenty guys with one good hand, I had nothing left to do but take off and try not to crash while I tried to figure out what the hell went wrong.

Well, from the beginning, Chesterfield probably fucked up by not checking intel thoroughly and just sending me into Insurgent Central with a crew that had mostly seen combat in their dreams. Then I fucked up by not double-checking. And now, two kids are dead, and three more are likely to be so quite soon. It's funny that I think of them as kids, but at thirty-three, everyone seems a kid, even Lieutenant Moreno. Luis was so eager to be flying with me on this mission, and I said I'd let him fly back all on his very own. Oh, fuck it all… The guys who grabbed the rest of my crew didn't look like the negotiating kind, and I'm not sure how long the guys have got. This was perhaps my determining factor in blowing Chesterfield off – knowing the man, I know that he couldn't get any kind of team together fast, be it strike, negotiation or cheerleading. If I got back as he ordered me, there most likely would be no chance we'd see the guys alive, because he would hem and haw until the Second Coming. Well, there is still no clear chance of seeing them alive, but I figure that I'll think of something.

And while I think of that elusive something, I've gotta stop the bleeding. Thankfully the bastards got me from the front, so at least I don't have to twist myself into a pretzel to put the bandage on. I unzip my flightsuit and rip my T-shirt a little bit to get to the wound, wincing slightly when my shoulder reminds me that there's still a bullet stuck inside if it. I fumble around until I find the canteen and after pouring some water over the wound, I locate the medkit and tape a pressure bandage over it. I'm not even sure if it's the right thing to do, but it'll have to do for now, because it's not like I could perform field surgery on myself and get the bullet out. I'd love to have a glass of whisky right about now, but unless the Jack Daniels fairy pops out of thin air with a bottle and then flies the chopper for me, that dream's not possible. I swallow a Tylenol with some more water and stash the med supplies. Now it's time to think, since I don't have any distractions left. I've flown about seven-eight miles, over the next peak, at my reckoning, and on my way I think I saw a clearing that looked a little too manmade to occur there naturally. I've missed it on the flight in, but it is hard to notice, and I guess fate was smiling on me. Except for letting that bullet hit me, of course.

I could fly in and shoot those guys full of holes right in their camp, but then I risk killing my men, and that's not an acceptable risk. Well, that leaves pretty much one way to get them out, and perhaps that's my advantage. Those guys are not expecting a one-man assault – they wrongly assume that I'm a normal pilot who has hightailed it out of the mountains a while ago or crashed over the other side of the mountain. Little do they know that I'm a crazy asshole who takes "never leave a man behind" a bit too close to heart. Dad was left for dead once in Vietnam, and lay dying on a field for almost a day, until by sheer luck, a Vietnamese woman saw his hand move and got an Army medic. Dad had never told me about that incident – I found out about it from Mom, but somehow it was even more meaningful coming from her, and made me value my Dad even more, for holding on enough to not die, to meet Mom and have me and my brothers. I wonder what Dad would do if he were in my place. Would he abandon the men in order to go for reinforcements that could be too late, or would he risk his life like an idiot and just waltz up into the rebel camp all by his lonesome in vain hope that he could stand his own against who knows how many heavily armed men?

But dad's not here, and I've got to decide all on my own. Well, in any case, having a shitload of grenades never hurts, so I just grab as many as I can, a couple of each – some flashbangs, some smoke ones, and couple of concussion grenades. I'm gonna hope that these boys holding my crew hostage are not the brightest, and I'll be able to confuse them into thinking that they are being attacked by a whole bunch of people instead of one dumb flyboy who's a former science geek. I get my own M-16, get the spare one, grab the GPS stuff along with my survival pack and set up a little welcoming present in case someone happens upon the chopper while I'm off playing Rambo. If they fuck with the controls, they'll blow themselves up, and while this would be somewhat counterproductive for the guys and me, at least the helicopter will not fall into the wrong hands.

I climb up the hill, and see that I've picked a good place to park – a bit hard to get to, and in a place that it's not too obvious. Since it's starting to get dark, I should get a move on. I get the GPS to work, put in the coordinates of where I think the camp is, and set off on my merry way. After walking for about an hour, I check the GPS and see that I'm about halfway there, and decide to think about the game plan. Check out the camp, locate where prisoners are held, try to infiltrate, try to let the guys know what's going on so they'll still have their eardrums, and then just simulate a full-on attack, and if all that succeeds, hightail it out of there and try to get to the chopper. It'll be a miracle if this works, but hey, I believe in miracles…

As I walk, my thoughts turn to the events of the last couple of weeks, especially Mitch and Dex and their chopper, blown to bits all over the Afghan countryside. I called Colleen, Mitch's wife, yesterday, and she said she was happy he went fast, and in Dex's company, that he was not alone. She said they would have a memorial service for the guys on the base next month, and asked me to send something – a letter, a tape, anything, and thanked me for being their friend. I promised to send something over, told her to tell care of herself, and hung up that phone feeling like someone had punched me in the gut. All I could think was that if I had been in that chopper instead of Mitch, there would've been one less grieving family, because despite the loneliness that comes from having cut ties with your family, it is better when less people grieve for you when you die. Grief is like poison, and it can cloud people's memory of you, and I would never want my death to taint the memories people have had of me in life, if that makes any sense. I want to be remembered without tears, as a guy who loved planes, football and an occasional research paper on game theory, who was a hopefully a good friend and who lived life to the fullest.

I spot a man walking towards me, and move back in the shadows. When he's right next to me, I smash butt of the M-16 into his jaw, and he falls down with a muffled 'oomph'. So far, the plan's going fine, and this guy might be helpful to me. I relieve him of his clothes, and ignore my shoulder while I put on the Taliban Winter Collection. I let him have my pants, so at least his ass doesn't freeze off, and tie and gag him in case he wakes up and decides to alarm his friends. He's been thoughtful enough to provide me with a long winter jacket that has room for both of my M-16s, and even a turban that's gonna help me hide my very beardless face. He's a sweetie – I even get his beat-up rifle as a bonus. Well, now I'm at least outfitted like a local, and people might ask me questions before they shoot. There's only one problem – my knowledge of Pashtu is slim to none, mostly some stuff I picked up from that warlord when he was practicing his English on me, and my Arabic is bizarre beyond belief. I remember whatever survival Arabic I've been taught, of course, but over time, it's gotten mixed up with stuff that I remember from distant family reunions, when my mother's second cousins were visiting from Lebanon, and the times I visited my grandmother. So if I do happen upon an insurgent, I can tell him to give up, fuck his dog and bake a cake all at once.

I reach the camp after about ten minutes, and after surveying it sigh with relief – it seems to be a small one, with fifty people at most. It's gonna be a piece of cake. There's a couple of old jeeps next to some horses, and about fifteen tents in a tight circle. Now's comes the hard part. Logically, they wouldn't be stupid enough to keep the prisoners on the edge of the camp, so they must be towards the middle. My brilliant deduction pays off when I notice a guy with a gun standing outside of a tent. I keep to the shadows and approach the guarded tent from the back, get my gun ready and cut a small hole in the tent. I look in and breathe a sigh of relief when I see three figures in very familiar uniforms. I slice the fabric enough to be able to get in, and crawl into the tent. Lastow's the first one to notice me – his mouth falls open and he nudges Brenner with his boot, who in turn elbows Przeworski. The guys stare at me like I'm an alien.

"Major, if I may ask, how did-" Brenner begins quietly, but I bring a finger to my lips and he goes quiet.

"I'm here alone," I whisper, and slice through the nylon rope that his hands are bound with, reaching him the knife. "Chopper's eight miles away north-northwest, flight controls are rigged but you can use radio if something happens to me." I get the grenades out of the survival pack, and divide them up for everyone to use. Everyone's untied by then, and I pass out the weapons, leaving the pistol to myself since it's the most useful to me with one hand. "Lastow, Przeworski, wait here five minutes, and then when you hear people yelling, cover your ears and throw a flashbang outside. Take some of the concussion ones too, and just throw them as you see fit. I'd be on the other side of the camp, and gonna use the smoke ones. Brenner, I need you to get to what passes for the motor pool here, find some old heap that we might get away on, and stand by." I climb out with Brenner through the back, and after pointing him to the Jeeps, I hurry over to the other side by a somewhat roundabout way so I don't run into any insurgents. I assume my position, get ready to start the countdown, and suddenly feel a gun pressed to my neck. Well, so much for a good plan.

I drop down quickly and wince I hear the gun being fired just above my head, roll backwards to trip the guy and when he goes down I get up and run like crazy, pulling out a flashbang and throwing it behind me. I manage to get my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut just before it goes off. This helps somewhat, and just after as the insurgents begin yelling, I hear the echoing bang from the prisoners' tent, and take it as my signal to start throwing smoke grenades. Soon, our efforts pay off and there is total chaos. The camp is filled with smoke and the guys inside think they're probably being attacked by the whole U.S. Air Force, and are haphazardly firing their guns in the air and yelling something. Our work here is done, and I run to the motor pool, where the boys are already started up a rusty Jeep. I jump in, and after we are at a decent distance, I instruct Brenner, who's the captain of a baseball team at home, to throw our last flashbang at the motor pool. The good old M84 and shoddy vehicle maintenance work together, and as we drive off, there's an explosion and a Jeep flies up into the air.

Brenner drives the old rust heap as far as it can go, which is about five miles. We've still got three miles to the chopper, so we just run like crazy. My arm's beginning to get numb, but I ignore it, and just press on. We make it up the hill in record time, and slow down to a shaky walk. After checking out the chopper and making sure no one's about to ambush us, I tell Lastow how to disarm the surprise and lean against a tree because I'm not sure how much longer I'd be able to stand up. I figure I've still got enough juice in me to get us to the nearest friendly air strip, if not the base, but I've gotta regroup and get myself ready to fly, which is kinda hard when my fingers are going numb. Lastow calls out that all's clear, and we don't waste our time getting in the chopper. Brenner grabs the night vision goggles and a rifle, and keeps a lookout for guys trying to shoot us down, and we take off. After we're out of the mountains, Przeworski contacts base and lets them know we are coming, but I can't hear what he's saying because I'm focused on the controls. Before long, I can see the welcoming lights of the AFB, and I descend for landing, my mind rejoicing at the fact that I'm gonna have the good drugs in just a couple of moments.

After a near-perfect landing – I've gotta brag later about how Air Force guys can land a chopper with one good arm while Army flyboys can barely land it with two – we're suddenly surrounded by a crowd of people who are all talking at the same time. Chesterfield's yelling something at me but I couldn't give a flying fuck at the moment, and I gratefully sink onto the gurney the medics have wheeled out and lie back and get comfortable as they hook up an IV. Before they get a chance to whisk me away, Brenner jogs over to the gurney and says "Thank you, sir, from all of us!" before shaking my good hand. Since I'm on happy juice, all that I can manage is a wobbly salute and a smile, and as the medics wheel me off and Chesterfield yells something about court-martials and the price of USAF aircraft and orders, I know that I am not screwed too badly after all. I'll probably get a black mark on my record, but my next promotion is a long way off anyway and I've got nothing to feel sorry about, since I didn't leave the men behind, and got them back safe. And whatever happens, even if it be something worse then being on the shit list of the Air Force, I will always know that I did not abandon the men in enemy territory, and that's what matters to me.


End file.
